Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane

by Wyatts Hurricane

  So it was that when Commander Schelling checked into his office at eight that morning there was a neatly typed report tying squared-up on his blotting-pad. He picked it up, his mind on other things, and got a jolt as the information suddenly sank into him like a harpoon. He grabbed the telephone and said hoarsely, "Get me Radar Surveillance -- the Duty Officer."

  While he waited for the connection he scanned the report again. It became visibly worse as he read it. The microphone clicked in his ear. "Lieutenant Moore ... off duty? ... who is that, then? ... All right, Ensign Jennings, what's all this about bad weather to the south?"

  He tapped impatiently on the desk as he heard what Jennings had to say, slammed down the telephone and felt the sweat break out on his brow. Wyatt had been right -- Mabel had swerved to pay a visit to San Fernandez. His body acted efficiently enough as he selected all the information he had on Mabel and packed the sheets neatly into a folder, but a voice was yammering at the back of his mind: It's goddam unfair; why should Wyatt be right on an unscientific hunch? Why the hell didn't Mabel stick to what she should have done? How in God's name am I going to explain this to Brooks?

  He entered the radar section at a dead run and one look at the screen was enough. He swung back on Jennings and snapped, "Why wasn't I told about this earlier?"

  "There was a report sent to your office by Lieutenant Moore, sir."

  "That was nearly three hours ago." He pointed at the thickening green streaks on the bottom edge of the radar screen. "Do you know what that is?"

  "Yes, sir," said Jennings. "There's a bit of bad weather blowing up."

  "A bit of bad weather?" said Schelling thickly. "Get out of my way, you fool." He pushed past Jennings and blundered out into the sunlit corridor. He stood there indecisively for a moment, then moistened his lips. The Commodore must be told, of course. He left the radar section like a man heading for his own execution with Ensign Jennings staring after him with puzzlement in his eyes.

  The officer in Brooks's outer office was dubious about letting Schelling in to bother the Commodore. Schelling leaned over his desk and said deliberately, "If I don't get to see the Commodore within two minutes from now, you'll find yourself pounding the anchor cable for the next twenty years." A small flame of satisfaction leaped within him as he saw that he had intimidated this officer, a weak flame that drowned in the apprehension of What Brooks would have to say.' Brooks's desk was as neat as ever, and Brooks himself sat in the same position as though he had never moved during the last two days. He said," Well, Commander? I understand you want to speak to me urgently."

  Schelling swallowed. "Er . . . yes, sir. It's about Mabel."

  Brooks did not move a muscle, nor was there any change in his voice, but an air of tension suddenly enveloped him as he asked evenly, "What about Mabel?"

  Schelling said baldly, "She seems to have swung off her predicted course."

  "Seems? Has she or hasn't she?"

  "Yes, sir; she has."

  "Well?"

  Schelling looked into Brooks's hard grey eyes and gulped. "She's heading right for us." He became alarmed at the Commodore's immobility and his tongue loosened. "She shouldn't have done it, sir. It's against all theory. She should have passed to the west of Cuba. / don't know why she turned and I don't know any other meteorologist who could tell you either. There are so many things we don't . . ."

  Brooks stirred for the first time. "Stop prattling, Schelling. How long have we got?"

  Schelling put the folder down on the desk and opened it "She's a little over a hundred seventy miles away now, and she's moving along at eleven miles an hour. That gives us fifteen, maybe sixteen, hours."

  Brooks said, "I'm not interested in your reasoning -- I just wanted a time." He swung round in his chair and picked up a telephone. "Give me the Executive Officer . . . Commander Leary, I want you to put Plan K into action right now." He glanced at his watch. "As of 08:31 hours. That's right . . . immediate evacuation."

  He put down the telephone and turned back to Schelling. "I wouldn't feel too bad about this, Commander. It was my decision to stay, not yours. And Wyatt didn't have any real facts -- merely vague intuitions."

  But Schelling said, "Maybe I was too rigid about it, sir."

  Brooks waved that away. "I took that into my calculations, too. I know the capabilities of my officers." He turned and looked out of the window. "My one regret is that we can't do anything about the people of St. Pierre. But that, of course, is impossible. We'll come back as soon as we can and help clear up the mess, but the ships will take a beating and it won't be easy."

  He looked at Schelling. "You know your station under Plan K?"

  "'Yes, sir."

  "You'd better get to it."

  He watched Schelling leave the office with something like pity in his eyes, then called for his personal assistant. Things had to be done -- all the many necessary things. As soon as he was alone again he walked over to a wall safe and began to pack documents into a lead-weighted briefcase, and it was only when he had completed his last official duties on Cap Sarrat Base that he packed the few personal effects he wanted to take, including a photograph of his wife and two sons Which he took from a drawer in his desk.

  II

  Eumenides Papegaikos was a very frightened man. He was not the stuff of which heroes are made and he did not like the position in which he found himself. True, running a night club had its difficulties, but they were of the nature which could be solved by money -- both Serrurier's corrupt police and the local protection racketeeers could be bought off, which partly accounted for the high prices he charged. But he could not buy his way out o f a civil war, nor could a hurricane be deflected by the offer of all the gold in the world.

  He had hoped to be taken to Cap Sarrat with the American women, but Wyatt and the war had put a stop to that. In a way he was thankful he was among foreigners -- he was tongue-tied in English but that served to camouflage his fears and uncertainties. He volunteered for nothing but did as he was told with a simulated willingness which concealed his internal quakings -- which was why he was now stealthily creeping through the banana plantation and heading towards the top of the ridge overlooking the sea.

  There were noises all about him -- the singing cicadas and a fainter, more ominous, series of noises that seemed to come from all around. There was the clink of metal from time to time, and the faraway murmur of voices and the occasional rustle of banana leaves which should have been still in the sultry, windless night.

  He reached the top of the ridge, sweating profusely, and looked down towards the coastal road. There was much activity down there; the sound of heavy trucks, the flash of lights and the movement of many men under the bright light of the moon. The quarry, where they had left the car, was now full of vehicles and there was a constant coming and going along the narrow track.

  After a while Eumenides withdrew and turned to go back to the others. All over the plantation lights were springing up, the flickering fires of a camping army, and sometimes he could distinguish the movements of individual men as they walked between him and the flames. He walked down the hill, hoping that, if seen, he would only be another soldier stumbling about in the darkness, and made his way with caution towards the hollow where they had dug the foxholes. He made it with no trouble but at the expense of time, and when he joined Julie and Mrs. Warmington nearly an hour" had elapsed.

  From the bottom of her camouflaged foxhole Julie whispered cautiously, "Eumenides?"

  "Yes. Where's Rawst'orne?"

  "He hasn't come back yet. What's happening?"

  Eumenides struggled valiantly with the English language. "Lot peoples. Soldiers. Army."

  "Government soldiers? Serrurier's men?"

  "Yes." He, waved his arm largely. "All aroun'."

  Mrs. Warmington whimpered softly. Julie said slowly, "Serrurier must have been beaten back -- kicked out of St. Pierre. What do we do?"

  Eumenides was silent. He did not see what they could do. If t
hey tried to get away capture would 'be almost certain, but if they stayed, then daylight would give them away. Julie said, "Are any of the soldiers near?"

  Eumenides pointed. "Maybe two 'undred feet. You speak loud -- they 'ear."

  "Thank goodness we found this hollow," said Julie. "You'd better get into your hole, Eumenides. Cover yourself with banana leaves. We'll wait for Mr. Rawsthorne."

  "I'm frightened," said Mrs. Warmington in a small voice from out of the darkness.

  "You think I'm not?" whispered Julie. "Now keep quiet."

  "But they'll kill us," wailed Mrs. Warmington in a louder voice. "They'll rape us, then kill us."

  "For God's sake, keep quiet," said Julie as fiercely as she could in a whisper. "They'll hear you."

  Mrs. Warmington gave a low moan and lapsed into silence. Julie lay in the bottom of her foxhole and waited for Rawsthorne, wondering how long he would be, and what they could possibly do when he came back.

  Rawsthorne was in difficulties. Having crossed the service road, he was finding it hard to recross it; there was a constant stream of traffic in both directions, the trucks roaring along one after the other with blazing headlights so that he could not cross without being seen. And it had taken him a long time to find the road at all. In his astonishment at finding himself in the middle of an army he had lost his way, stumbling about in the leaf-dappled darkness between the rows of plants and fleeing in terror from one group of soldiers, only to find another barring his way.

  By the time he had calmed down he was a long way from the road and it took him nearly an hour and a half to get back to it, harried as he was by the dread of discovery. He had no illusions of what would happen to him if discovered. Serrurier's propaganda had been good; he had deceived these men and twisted their minds, and then trained and drilled them into an army. To them all blancs were Americans and Americans were bogeymen in the mythology Serrurier had built up -- there would be a weird equation in which white man equals Americans equals spy, and he would be shot on the spot.

  So he trod cautiously as he threaded his way among the banana plants. Once he had to remain motionless for a full half hour while a group of soldiers conversed idly on the other side of the plant under which he was hiding. He pressed himself against the broad leaves and prayed that one of them would not think to walk round the tree, and he was lucky.

  When he was able to go on his way again he thought of what the men had been saying. The troops were tired and dispirited ; they complained of the inefficiency of their officers and spoke in awe of the power of Pavel's artillery. One recurring theme had been: where are our guns? No one had been able to answer. But the news was that the army was regrouping under General Rocambeau and they were going in to attack St. Pierre when the night was over. Although a lot of their military supplies had been captured by Favel, Rocambeau's withdrawing force had managed to empty San Juan arsenal and there was enough ammunition to make the attack. The men's voices lifted when they spoke of Rocambeau and they seemed to have renewed hope.

  At last he found the road and waited in the shadows for a gap in the stream of traffic, but none came. He looked desperately at his watch -- dawn was not far away and he would have to cross the road before then. At last, seeing no hope in a diminution of the traffic, he moved along the edge of the road until he found a curve. Here he might have a chance of crossing undetected by headlights. He waited until a truck went by, then ran across and hurled himself down on the other side. The lights of the next track coming round the bend swept over him as he lay there winded.

  There was light in the eastern sky when at last he located the approximate direction of the hollow in which the others were concealed. He moved along warily, thinking that this sort of thing might be all right for younger men like Wyatt and Causton, but might prove the death of an elderly man like himself.

  Julie roused herself from her foxhole as the light grew in the sky. She sat up cautiously, lifting the huge green leaves, and looked about, wondering where Rawsthorne was. No one had come near the hollow and it seemed as though they might yet evade capture if they kept hidden and silent. But first she had to look about to see from which direction danger was most likely to threaten.

  She whispered to Eumenides, "I'm going to the edge of the hollow."

  There was a stir in the 'banana leaves. "All ri'."

  "Don't leave me," Mrs. Warmington pleaded, sitting up. "Please don't go away -- I'm frightened."

  "Ssssh. I'm not going far -- just a few yards. Stay here and be quiet."

  She crawled away among the plants and found a place from which she could survey the plantation. In the dim morning light she could see the movement of men and heard a low hum of voices. The nearest group was a mere fifty yards away but the men were all asleep, huddled shapes lying round the dying embers of a fire.

  She had come away to check on their camouflage in the light of day and before it was too late, so she looked back down into the hollow to see that the newly turned earth looked dreadfully raw, but it was nothing that could not be disguised by a few more leaves. The holes themselves were quite invisible or would be if that damned woman would keep still.

  Mrs. Warmington was sitting up and looking about nervously, still clutching her purse to her breast. "Get down, you fool," breathed Julie, but to her astonishment Mrs Warmington opened her purse, produced a comb and began to comb her hair. She'll never team, thought Julie in despair; she's quite unadaptable and habit-ridden. To attend to one's coiffure in the morning was, no doubt, quite laudable in suburbia, but it might mean death on this green hillside.

  She was about to slip back and thrust the woman back into her foxhole, by force if necessary, when she was arrested by a movement on the other side of the hollow. A soldier was coming down, stretching his arms as he walked as though he had just risen from sleep, and adjusting the sling of his rifle to his shoulder. Julie stayed very still and her eyes switched to Mrs. Warmington, who was regarding herself in a small mirror. She distinctly heard the deprecating and very feminine sound which Mrs. Warmington made as she discovered how bedraggled she was.

  The soldier heard it too and unslung his rifle and came down into the hollow very cautiously. Mrs. Warmington heard the metallic click as he slammed back the bolt, and she screamed as she saw him coming towards her, scrabbling at her purse. The soldier stopped in astonishment and then a broad grin spread over his face and he came closer, putting up his rifle.

  Then there were three flat reports that echoed on the hot morning air. The soldier shouted and spun round to flop at Mrs. Warmington's feet, writhing like a newly landed fish. Blood stained his uniform red at the shoulder.

  Eumenides popped up from his hole like a jack-in-a-box as Julie started to run. When she got down to the bottom of the hollow he was bending over the fallen soldier, who was moaning incoherently. He regarded his bloody hand blankly. "He was shot!"

  "He was coming at me," screamed Mrs. Warmington. "He was going to rape me -- kill me." She waved a pistol in her hand.

  Julie let her have it, putting all her strength into the muscular open-handed slap. She was desperate -- at all costs she must silence this hysterical woman. Mrs. Warmington was suddenly silent and the gun dropped from her nerveless fingers to be caught by Eumenides. His eyes opened wide as he looked at it. "This is mine," he said in astonishment.

  Julie whirled as she heard a shout from behind and saw three soldiers running down the slope. The first one saw the prone figure on the ground and the pistol in Eumenides's hand and wasted no time in argument. He brought up 'his gun and shot the Greek in the stomach.

  Eumenides groaned and doubled up, his hands at his belly. He dropped to his knees and bent forward and the soldier lifted his rifle and bayoneted him in the back. Eumenides collapsed completely and the soldier put his boot on him and pulled out the bayonet, to stab and stab again until the body lay in a welter of blood.

  Rawsthorne, watching from the edge of the hollow, was sickened to his stomach but was unable to tear his
eyes away. He listened to the shouting and watched the women being pushed about. One of the soldiers was ruthlessly pricking them with a bayonet and he saw the red blood running down Julie's arm. He thought they were going to be shot out of hand but then an officer came along and the two women were hustled out of the hollow, leaving behind the lifeless body of Eumenides Papegaikos.

  Rawsthorne lingered for some minutes, held in a state of shock before his brain began to work again. At last he moved away, crawling on his belly. But he did not really know where he was going nor what he was going to do next.

  ill Wyatt discovered that Favel was a hard man to find. With Dawson, he had been handed over to a junior officer who was too preoccupied with the immediate tactical situation to pay much attention to him. In order to rid himself of an incubus, the officer had passed them up the line, escorted by a single private soldier who was depressed at being taken out of the battle. Dawson looked at him, and said, "There's nothing wrong with the morale of these boys."

  "They're winning," said Wyatt shortly. He was obsessed by the urgency of getting to see Favel, but he could see it was not going to be easy. The war had split into two separate battles to the west and east of St. Pierre. Pavel's hammer blow in the centre had split Serrurier's army into two unequal halves, the larger part withdrawing to the east in a fighting retreat, and a smaller fragment fleeing in disorder to the west to join the as yet unblooded troops keeping a watch on Cap Sarrat.

  A more senior officer laughed in their faces when Wyatt demanded to see Favel. "You want to see Favel," he said incredulously. "Blanc, I want to see him -- everyone wants to see him. He is on the move all the time; he is a busy man."

  "Will he be coming here?" asked Wyatt.

  The officer grunted. "Not if I can help it. He comes only when there is trouble, and I don't want to be the cause of his coming. But he might come," he prophesied. "We are moving against Rocambeau."